Sing for Me
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: /Pre-series/ What do you do when you've been so thoroughly betrayed? All he had to his name was a fistful of woolongs, the clothes on his back and the shadow of a woman with beautiful blond hair. /Work in Progress/


Nicholas: HEY! Holy crap it's been a while since I've posted something on here. I'm not sure I'm going to keep doing it because and I are not on good terms at the moment. So I hope you like...and maybe I'll finish it.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: M...for sensuality and possible violence in later chapters.

* * *

Easy flow of a saxophone from the makeshift stage propped up in the corner. The bar was filled with a thick fog of cigarette smoke and the stench of alcohol. Everyone speaking created a low, tangible hum. Spike couldn't hear any of it. The rest of the world was behind panes of glass for all he cared, submerged in miles of water and he was all alone in his own bubble. The flowers were wilting on the table beside him as he continued to drown himself.

"Hey there, Cowboy," came a voice, soft and muted, though it managed to penetrate the haze of Spike's mind. "You interested in some company?"

After the few moments that he needed to register that he was being spoken to, he turned his head slowly, as though he was drugged. He felt drugged. "Wha—?" he asked slowly. He must have had more to drink than he had thought, as he swiveled, he almost fell off of the stool.

"Woah!" she said, catching him by the shoulders and holding him up. She smelled like spice and chamomile tea. "Take it easy. I just asked if you wanted some company."

"You think I'm a cowboy?"

Spike looked at her, doing his best to focus. She was stunning, beautiful—one of those rare gems one finds in Tijuana from time to time. Dark brown, cat-slanted eyes with perfectly shaped brows, leagues of flowing brown hair, that impossible shade that is almost black; he looked at her and thought that he could break her petite frame. He had a knack for breaking things. Best to leave it alone, then; he didn't want to soil that lovely dress she was wearing—it showed off the graceful curve of her breasts, her hips and the miles of long, tanned legs.

"Aren't you?" she asked, a smile on her full lips.

Spike scoffed and turned back to the counter, reaching for his glass of that weak piss they served everywhere in the solar system, realizing he'd already drank it. "I fit a type or something?"

"I've worked this bar for quite a while now, only bounty hunters ever come in here." There was something in her voice. Whatever it was had a soft, lilting quality; it was almost a song just as she spoke. Like a song he'd heard in another lifetime that now seemed so long ago. "I didn't mean to jump to any conclusions."

"Only bounty hunters?" He really needed to pay better attention to his surroundings.

"Yeah, quite the rambunctious crowd, though it's kind of tame right now."

Tensing, Spike wondered if he was really free, if the powers that be really thought he was dead. Would he have a bounty on his head soon? Hell, maybe he really had died and he just needed some more convincing. Leaning on the bar, he toyed with his glass and debated getting another shot or two. He could afford it now that he hadn't bought those shuttle tickets. Absently, he dug his thumbnail into the wood. "Why'd you come over here?" he asked at length, "You've got plenty of other prospects."

She didn't reply until she had pushed herself elegantly onto the barstool beside him. Every movement of her body was like a dance, something entrancing and beautiful. "I suppose I do," she said, "but I'm here. Am I bothering you? Do you want me to leave?" Even as she said it, she made no move to go. Instead, she crossed her legs, causing her already short dress to ride up the sides of her thighs. This woman seemed to have perfected a system of completely non-physical seduction. Spike's alcohol soaked brain could register that he wanted her—he'd be crazy not to really—but every time he looked at her, took in her consuming femininity, he thought of…_her_.

"No," he admitted, "You just…remind me of someone."

"Oh? Ex-girlfriend?"

"Dead girlfriend." _She_ may as well have been dead, as far as Spike was concerned. He'd never felt more betrayed.

A change came over the woman sitting beside him. Instead of backing away to give him space, she seemed to move even closer. It was as though she was acutely aware of just how comforting her presence was right now, even though Spike didn't even know her name. "I'm sorry," she said, hesitantly putting a hand on his arm. "I…"  
When she touched him, Spike felt something very cold inside of him start to heat up again. "Don't be, any female human being would remind me of her right now."

There was a slight quirk to the corner of her mouth, bee stung lips drawn up in a small grin. "So I'll go out on a limb and guess that you don't want my company after all."

"That depends on how much it will cost me."

Surprisingly enough, he wasn't slapped for that. He glanced over to see that she was still smiling. She inched even closer, leaning a bit over the counter so that he was given a rather superfluous view of what of her breasts her dress wasn't hiding. "How much? Let's say I give you a special rate being that you aren't a bounty hunter, hm? ₩10,000 for two hours, does that sound reasonable to you?"  
He looked, liked what he saw—no denying that he was interested, but… "If I paid you, would you just talk to me?" he asked, glaring once again at the counter as though it had done him personal ill. "Or…let me talk."

"Whatever you want, sweetie. That's my job."

* * *

Her name, as it turned out, was Audrey. She had an apartment not far from the saloon that Spike neglected to get the name of. He walked with her, keeping a quick pace through the rain. The water made the cold even more intense, and he'd been drenched because he'd put his coat over her shoulders. That frozen part deep inside of him was hardening up again. By the time they had quitted the streets, taking the creaky stairs to her home and taking refuge inside, he was shivering and full of gloom.

Locking the door, Audrey flicked on her light and lit the wood-burning stove in the corner to start a little heat going in her studio apartment. After she kicked off her five-inch heels, and hung his coat up in her restroom—over the shower to dry—she came back and pulled his jacket off. "I'll get you out of those wet things, alright?"

Spike didn't say anything. He remained passive as she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his tie loose. For some reason, he greatly appreciated that she didn't act like this was something sensual or enticing. He was practically frozen solid, and the more skin she bared, the colder he got. She had him down to his boxers and socks before she ushered him over to her bed and sat him down. A towel materialized out of nowhere, and she scrubbed it lightly over his head, through his green hair.

The fabric blocked his eyes, all he could see was the hem of her tight, black dress and her stocking-wrapped legs. He had an odd reminiscence in which he was fully aware of where he was, yet he could believe just as completely that _she_ was standing before him, taking care of him like _she_ used to. Heaving a sigh, he put his hands over her hips and closed his eyes.

She stopped humming and it was then that he realized she'd been doing it in the first place. "Spike?" she questioned.

He kept his eyes shut firmly. If he just blocked everything else out, he could almost feel _her_ beneath his hands. His fingers tightened and Audrey shook almost imperceptibly. "I want to tell you everything," he said, quietly, "I need… I feel like I'm dreaming, and if I can just tell someone I'll wake up from it."

Her hands on his head stopped and after a few beats, she pulled the towel away and looked down at him. The moment he saw her face again, her beautiful brown eyes, his illusion was shattered. It was for the better. "If that's what you want, go ahead."

"First…" He trailed off as his reddish eyes scanned her face and then dropped lower—the gentle curve of her neck, her breast—his thumbs stroked over her sides. Standing slowly, he kept holding her. He reached behind her and slid the zipper of her dress down and pulled it down. She wasn't wearing a bra. He watched her step out of the garment and then roll her stockings down and off. He stopped her from taking off her pants. "Just this," he said.

After some slightly awkward coordination, they arranged themselves on her bed, Spike's back against the headboard as he cradled her, back to chest, against him. This was all he wanted, just someone he could hold, be close to for just a couple hours. One of his legs was bent over hers, and he buried his face for just a few moments in the scent of her hair.

"Spike?" she inquired after a while. "Don't fall asleep on me."

"Nope," he assured her. He spread his hand over her stomach. "You'll listen, right? You won't be afraid of me when I tell you all of the things I've done? Everything that's gone wrong…it's all wrong now."

Audrey seemed to absorb that for several short beats. Her hand came up to rest over his on her belly. "Tell me," she requested.


End file.
